Fusillade Meets Fulcrum
IHQ Med Bay The new Med Bay is large enough to house all the wounded that could result from battles against the Autobots. Near the entrance, there are a series of benches for patients awaiting treatment. Advanced medtables line the sides of the room in symetrical rows while surgery is located within the central area. In the ceiling are several crane mechanisms to assist medics in moving larger Decepticons, each one highly articulated and built to withstand the strain of lifting even Devastator. The room's floor, walls, and ceiling are fitted with forceshield generators to contain those that are too injured to return to duty, possible contaminants, and also are set to automatically engage to protect the room from combat damage. The room is immaculately clean, carries a glossy shine, and always smells of disinfectants, giving off the air of a proper medical bay. To the rear are the airlock doors that lead to the Laboratory. The IHQ medbay is reasonably quiet at the moment, with only a couple of patients occupying repair-beds and no active repairs being undertaken. Two low-ranking MSE personell lounge around near an empty table, while the dour blacksmith Fulcrum stands before the main viewscreen, arms crossed across his cockpit chest-section as he goes over schematics with a slight frown. The blueprints on screen appear to be of a Seeker's external armor plating, notes on chemical composition and stress resistance scrolling rapidly up one side. It's early in the cycle, and as such, things are mostly quiet in the Repair Bay. At least, it's what Fusillade is hoping for when she stalks towards the doorway. One of the hip holsters and the wing it links to is completely severed from her frame. Despite some of the undercarriage damage, she's holding herself with stubborn pride, optics aglint with murderous intent. "Went into my quarters, swiped my spares," she spits out towards one of the techs as she snatches up a requisition form for the missing combination weapon and flying surface. Fulcrum half-turns, the light from the scrolling display flickering over his face, frown deepening as he checks who has disturbed his musings. "Spent all your quarters on sniping bears?" asks one of the unfortunate techs, his standard Seeker frame painted a garish cyan with day-glo orange stripes. His partner face-palms in the background, another seeker, this one heavily modified with antennae, fins, spikes, more fins and mini-turrets, all added with obvious enthusiasm and lack of skill.@emit"Your quarters have been broken into?" Fulcrum intones. "You should notify DCI." "Nooooooo, my WING was shot off," the dark grey and white femme hisses toward the mech. "I just got finished walking all the way back from Retoris Tunnel," she huffs quietly, looking askance. She was certain that word regarding the hazing antics have already gotten back to base... and then she finally gets a better look at the speaker. Fusillade freezes, any neutral or amicable expression melting as those orange-tinted optics bore into the MiG-29. "Smelting Unicron, I thought your ass got sucked into a singulari..." She snaps the words off, squinting some at the color scheme, reminding herself that if it were the mech in question, they'd be much, much different. "Shadows of the past," she reminds herself, and scowls visbily. "HARDLY broken into. An additional punitive measure from High Command," she says sourly, raising one glossy black hand towards the forge. "I believe they have full access and rights to trooper quarters." Fulcrum shrugs, misunderstanding Fusillade's comment, figuring she is referring to either a) His recent absence from Cybertron, or b) The time he spent MIA after his battle with DepthCharge. "Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated" he replies with no trace of humor. And no, Fulrum hasn't heard about the punishment. He doesn't listen to rumor. And besides, he's been busy. "Oh right, right" the low-ranking med-tech says, backing away from Fusillade, his partner brightening up at the words "wing shot off". "So.. you'd be needing a new one?" the heavily modified Seeker pipes up. "Because I've got some new designs that would look AWESOME on you." "And how about a new color scheme while you're at it?" his brightly colored counterpart adds. "Shall we say... powder blue with magenta detailing?" Those words don't do much to aid Fusillade's demeanor. She flicks those vivid citrine optics, and snorts quietly. "He would say the same, too." At that point, she abandons the idea of Fulcrum being another mech, and states, "Every hand is needed and appreciated." However, she's soon eating those words as the two techs begin sizing her up. "It's a custom job," she breathes out, and unholsters her still intact, left wingblade, unfurling the fan-like span to its full width, the pinion nearly two-thirds her height, and the seam lines nearly disappearing once it's fully extended. "Gunship Grey dorsal," she then gives a smart whisk of her wrist, flipping up the aileron so that the bottom is exposed, "And Gloss White ventral. Nothing more, nothing less. Beta Wing's not known for our fashion plates, you wanna play that game, pick up a Gamma Seekerboi." She then rumbles some, shifting to remove weight from the cracked, cauterized panelling and hydraulics on her right flank and thigh. Whatever caused the damage involved high temperatures, and likely ionized energy. Lots of it, and well-aimed. The brightly colored Seeker dismisses Fusillade's color choices with a flick of his hand. "Gunship grey? That's /so/ last vorn. I'm telling you, Sky Blue is /in/. And of course, the magenta will break it up, give it some snap." His comrade, meanwhile, is already bringing up a catalogue of different wing designs. "Custom, yes.. custom is good. But you have to ask yourself, is it custom, or is it /Custom/? Think about it - we could add some more vents here, an aerodynamic spoiler - some custom landing gear.." Fulcrum sighs. So much for his quiet morning working on his personal project. "Repaint" he intones. "Gunship grey. Storage cube TX-1141. Kitbash. Bring up the specifications of...." Fulcrum trails off, realising he's not able to name the femme, "..our patient." Both of the junior techs look disapointed, but reluctantly move to follow orders, Repaint hissing out a "Are you /sure/ you don't want the blue?" before scurrying away. A resigned draught of air is sent over Fusillade's vents as the two prattle on. It's at this point that Fulcrum is turned to as an anchor of sanity. "It's becoming clear why this time of day is quiet in the repair bay." However, the scuttling of the two in the background affords Fusillade the chance to introduce herself, "Unit #84-0057, MilOps Trooper Fusillade." She inclines her gilded brow. "I typically like to avoid the hangars, and the plasma damage will eventually mend itself, but... my hand has been forced," she concedes to the Fulcrum. Indignation seethes under her prim exterior as she stalks towards a table, and reholsters the functional wing as she hops aboard, swinging her legs anxiously. "You carry yourself as someone who has served the Empire for some time." "Fulcrum. MSE" the blacksmith replies, not bothering to add rank. Served the Empire for a long time? Well.. he supposes he has. But hasn't everyone? "Repaint and Kitbash are... enthusiastic." he says, sidestepping the comment as he approaches the table, taking out a medscanner and running a brief check on Fusillade's systems. Glancing at the readings he nods. "The wing will be simple enough to repair, but.." he looks up at the femme, "...if this was done as a punishment, do you have /permission/ to be repaired?" (And then we had to run away for RL stuff. Sniff.)